And Jean Valjean added:—
“Father Fauchelevent, we must come to a decision: I must either be caught here, or accept this escape through the hearse.”
Everyone has noticed the taste which cats have for pausing and lounging between the two leaves of a half-shut door. Who is there who has not said to a cat, “Do come in!” There are men who, when an incident stands half-open before them, have the same tendency to halt in indecision between two resolutions, at the risk of getting crushed through the abrupt closing of the adventure by fate. The over-prudent, cats as they are, and because they are cats, sometimes incur more danger than the audacious. Fauchelevent was of this hesitating nature. But Jean Valjean’s coolness prevailed over him in spite of himself. He grumbled:—
“Well, since there is no other means.”
Jean Valjean resumed:—
“The only thing which troubles me is what will take place at the cemetery.”
“That is the very point that is not troublesome,” exclaimed Fauchelevent. “If you are sure of coming out of the coffin all right, I am sure of getting you out of the grave. The gravedigger is a drunkard, and a friend of mine. He is Father Mestienne. An old fellow of the old school. The gravedigger puts the corpses in the grave, and I put the gravedigger in my pocket. I will tell you what will take place. They will arrive a little before dusk, three-quarters of an hour before the gates of the cemetery are closed. The hearse will drive directly up to the grave. I shall follow; that is my business. I shall have a hammer, a chisel, and some pincers in my pocket. The hearse halts, the undertaker’s men knot a rope around your coffin and lower you down. The priest says the prayers, makes the sign of the cross, sprinkles the holy water, and takes his departure. I am left alone